


Rotting

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bizarre stream of consciousness piece based on Sherlock's real reasons for pretending he was off the wagon again. I honestly have no idea... S3 spoilers and general... weirdness. Johnlock if you enjoy a good squint. Also slightly songficcy, but not so much that you'd notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rotting

I'm rotting inside  
My flesh turns to dust  
Whisper 'Are you dying?' in my ear. 

Green Day - Rotting

Sherlock is dying. Not really, not so dramatically, but inside, where it really fucking counts. 

His systems may still be functioning, but his soul, even if he has such a thing and in which case he condemns it to any God who can find it, is in tatters. Shredded into pieces by relentless sentiment, and any other such bullshit which cares to make itself known. Life is but a byproduct of the malfunction he has become. 

Drugs, of course, are both extremely helpful and equally not at all so, rendering him as they do useless and much less than he really is. While narcotics invade his bloodstream his mind rebels, saying no, no, no, but ultimately yes, because that's what they're for. Why else would he wound himself with the biting puncture of a needle if not for the sweet reward of not having to give a shit, if only for an hour or so?

Oh but dear dear, that's someone else altogether, isn't it? Someone with no one to frown or care but family, whose job it is anyway to give a shit so in the end it is with a regardless attitude with which he drives the plunger home. 

No more though, as slaps from a highly emotional pathologist have so achingly reminded him, so now he must rot alone with nothing but his lucid mind for company. Kind of a bitch, but there you go. 

Alone is what you wanted, so alone is all you have Sherlock. Know that you love John Watson to the extent that you are able, then let him go. No choice, not really, and like the drugs you so desperately crave he too is denied to you. Find a way to deal with it which doesn't involve opening a vein. 

By all means lurk in houses that used to be home, on the cusp of giving in but not quite because we wouldn't do that to John Watson. All around you breathes temptation, but you must remain unsullied and whole for a man who is never coming back. A consulting detective's life is an intermittent one, but a real life is a constant, nagging presence which you never could quite get the hang of. 

Sherlock isn't dying, but it really feels like he is. 

So it turns out that, in the long run, you can fix yourself if you take away the thing that kept smashing you into a thousand pieces like some sort of morbid jigsaw. John found out the easy way, by doing something as ordinary as falling in love. And good for him, right? He's not damaged anymore, well, not as badly as your presence caused. Because it didn't help, did it? Dragging him out on cases and showing him eviscerated bodies. It just kept him down in the dark you had made for yourself, but the absence of your darkness made plenty of room for a little light. 

No man is an island, and you are not even a man. He made you a man, and it serves you right that he took it away. 

Just say no. Drugs are bad.

Loneliness is worse. 

Sleep on mattresses ingrained with the stale piss of a hundred junkies before you if it makes you feel better. If it's somehow some sort of petty revenge, some show of what happens if you are left unattended, however, then keep it to yourself you petulant shit. 

Sherlock isn't dying, not yet. Death will come, sooner or later, but the biggest kick of the problem is that he doesn't care. 

Others do. Obviously. 

Sentiment again. And what an ugly and splintery cross it is to bear. All that love and concern crushing your shoulders and causing naught but pain. What's the point? 

Indeed, if it is so pointless, why is there so much in that swinging brick you call a heart?

Sleep now, you're ok. You're not dying Sherlock. You're just sad, so very sad.

Tired too, don't forget tired. Life is one punch to the stomach after another, let no one in, especially not a doctor because, well, that's simply too ironic.

Some people are made, be it by God or science or perhaps even fucking pixies equipped with magic wands and fairy dust because you don't really know, to complete the lives of others. 

You are just a stop gap. Everybody leaves. 

Hold on to your black rose, hold it close to your heart and ignore the pitter patter of soil thrown on your cold, yet somehow still breathing body. Let the thorns shred your fingertips, let the toxic blood salt the earth. Let no love ever grow here again. 

No love. No more. No. 

Friends, family, lovers. To what purpose, and what end? 

Sherlock isn't dying, but his head is killing him.


End file.
